


Whoopee Cushion

by glacis



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco gets distracted and his broom bears the brunt of it.  Snape is surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whoopee Cushion

Whoopee Cushion, by seeker.  Written for the the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Snape/Broomstick pairing)

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

Not many people know that brooms are semi-sentient.

Fewer still know that they bond with their owners.

Very few at all know what can happen when one goes ... a little astray.

Draco Malfoy certainly wasn't prepared for his to get a mind of its own. Or rather, to read his, and act on it when he couldn't. If he'd known he surely would have been mortified. Or turned on. Probably both.

It was just as well for Severus Snape that he didn't ever find out, then, wasn't it?

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

Snape stared up at his House Team, getting the pants soundly beaten off them by the bloody Gryffindors as usual, and sighed. He'd been working one-on-one with young Malfoy the past year, for several reasons, the most pressing being that the boy was almost seventeen, the time when the Dark Mark would be placed, and it was Snape's last chance to build some resistance into Draco's soul. But the one lesson Draco had never learnt, and probably WOULD never learn, was patience. It was obvious in the way he chased Potter, the increasingly desperate (and illegal) moves he made. The illegality wasn't a problem; their ham-handed execution was.

Then the snitch was sighted, the chase was on, and the match was lost as Potter swooped down like an eagle on a trout and caught the blasted snitch before Malfoy got within spitting distance. Not that it stopped him. They were too far away for Snape to read Draco's lips, but he knew a hex when he saw one thrown. He rose automatically to his feet, as if he could physically intervene, because he knew it would backfire, but alas he was outside the playing field. He could only watch as Potter laughed, waved the snitch at Draco, and mouthed something back.

What looked like a mighty gust of wind caused Draco's Quidditch robe to billow, and his broom bucked, before spiraling lazily down to the ground, listing rather drunkenly to the side, disregarding Draco's ranting and yanking at the handle. Snape sighed. Too little, too late. He climbed down from the stands and walked over to where Draco stood, still cursing his broom.

"It's not the Firebolt's fault," Snape hissed at him. Draco's head swung up and he swiveled around. His sulky face and fiery eyes made Snape sigh again. Would the boy never grow up? Or was he so much his father's son there was no hope at all for him? He reached out to lay a hand on Draco's shoulder, but the boy twisted away. Muttering something under his breath, too low for Snape to make out the words, he stomped back toward the broom storage shed and threw his Firebolt inside. Snape rolled his eyes.

His fate, to forever be cleaning up after the Malfoys. Following along behind, Snape took a moment to place the racing broom carefully on its rack. When he touched the handle, it seemed to shimmer under his hand for a moment, as if sighing. Snape stilled and stared. Running his fingertips gently over the surface, he tested the Cushioning Spell. It felt warm, somewhat squishy, as if it had a fever.

"What in the world has Potter done now?" Snape murmured. The broom shivered, then went quiet. Snape shook his head, patted the broomstick absently, then left the shed and headed back to the Slytherin dorms. Perhaps he could catch up with Draco in the common room and see if he could calm him. Talk some sense to him. Get through the haze of anger and arrogance to the boy beneath, and try once again to save him.

Severus Snape, he sneered at himself, patron saint of lost causes.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

In the darkness of the broom shed, a fine ash handle quivered beneath the diamond-hard polish coating it. The day had been difficult. Its owner had been angry, frustrated, and it had striven its utmost, but failed. Then at the end, a jolt of energy had gone through it, dizzying and dazing it. Once safely on the ground, it had tried in vain to calm itself, attuning itself from birch tail twigs to the tip of its handle with its owner's aura.

Then a second bout of dizziness hit as that aura abruptly lightened then darkened, unrequited love and rampaging lust shooting through it. Already off-balance from the disruption in its Cushioning Charm and the disharmony between itself and its owner, the Firebolt had no defense against inappropriate emotional absorption. It was wrenched up from the ground, thrown in disarray into its shed, and rescued by the kind touch of the one who had inspired the flash of lust. That hand had hovered over it, calming it, the aura of the hand's owner resonating with the charms woven throughout the broom, claiming it in a way its owner had never bothered to do.

Pressure built up. It had been created to serve, to respond to thought as well as voice or manual command, to do whatever its owner wished practically before the wish was enunciated. It was also compelled by this new being, partly in response to its owner's desires, partly from a desire of its own it was never meant to feel. The two conflicting urges, to serve its owner and go to the one who had comforted it, nearly split the Firebolt in twain.

In the end, it negotiated the division the only way it knew. It gave into the wishes of its owner and sliced through the night air, seeking the one both it and he wanted.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

Well, that had been a complete waste of time, Snape grumbled internally. Young Malfoy was avoiding everyone, and given the temper the lad was in, everyone was avoiding him in return. Everyone but Snape, who finally gave up in more than a bit of a temper of his own. He knew Draco was a spoiled brat, but still he had a soft spot for the boy, and Snape didn't want to see him fall into the darkness. But he couldn't very well follow the boy into his bedroom, and once Draco slammed off to bed, Snape was left with no choice.

He returned to the dungeons, puttered for an hour on an experimental potion, read and laughed sarcastically at a few articles in the Professional Potioners Journal, and went to bed himself. A few hours later, in the dead of night, a whisper of sound woke him.

There was someone in his bedroom.

Moving incrementally, he shifted until he could gaze through slitted eyelids around his room. He didn't see anyone. Not that it meant there was no one else there; invisibility cloaks were all the rage this year, thanks to the Potter brat. He wouldn't put it past the little bastard (not that he was so little anymore, but the mental image hadn't changed all that much since Potter was eleven) to sneak into his bedroom for a little mischief.

Shifting further still, until he was on his side, facing the door, he inched his hand toward the edge of the bed. If Potter was anywhere near, and given his predilection for putting his arse in a sling he'd probably be hanging right over the bed, Snape would be able to snatch the cloak off and --

His train of thought derailed completely as something cold, hard and snub-nosed tipped up his sleeping robe.

"What the bloody hell --" he squeaked, then the robe was tossed over his head and he found himself in smothering cotton darkness. His arms raised and he flailed wildly, trying to escape the net of his nightclothes now cast over him.

Before he got very far in disentangling himself, something bristly and oddly twiggish smacked his bum, causing him to yelp and jump. Then it poked at him, and he found himself flat on his belly, wondering how he got there. An instant later, he successfully fought the cotton material away from his face, though his arms were still bound up around his head. Then he froze.

The something that had first rooted about under the hem of his robe was now pushing gently against his arse hole. And he had nowhere to go. He couldn't go forward; the bed was in the way. He couldn't go to either side, because God knew what it was knocking at his back door, and for all he knew it could turn him to mincemeat if he moved. He certainly couldn't go backward, because that was where the ... the ... the THING was coming from! So he lay there and tried not to hyperventilate, mentally recalling and discarding every spell he'd ever learnt to repel invaders.

As he was invaded.

The thing breached him, surprisingly gently, and he forgot to breathe at all, concentrating instead on what was going on behind him. Whatever it was, it didn't seem to wish to hurt him, as it moved with extreme delicacy in order not to damage him. It was long, and hard, and bigger than he'd thought it was at first. His mind flashed to Potter again, only this time the mental image carried a dildo the size of a broomstick. To his utter bemusement, not a little appalled by it all, Snape found himself getting hard.

Then the thing moved back. "About time," Snape muttered, as he'd begun to think the thing was going to keep going 'til it straightened out his entire gut. Before he could make a move, however, it thrust back in. "Ye gods!" he yelped.

It had good aim. That had felt amazingly good.

Still shoved it, it began to vibrate. Snape whimpered, and found himself thrusting back. Mortified and ashamed, just knowing it was Potter doing nasty things to him (and probably taking pictures for his whole bloody House to enjoy) he tried his damnedest to ignore what was happening to his hindquarters, and his unfortunate uncontrollable reaction to it, and fought his arms free of his night robe.

With the material pushed back down around his chest, he could twist about far enough to get a glimpse of the person fucking him with ... whatever the hell he was being fucked with. His eyes bugged to see no one was behind him. The hard length inside withdrew and shoved forward, and Snape's head swung back as his eyes clenched closed. Catching a moan behind his teeth, he fought the waves of pleasure cresting through him as the thing moved again, and again. Wriggling his hips, he managed to get to his knees. He had the vague idea he could crawl off the bed and escape.

That was the plan, anyway. The reality turned out to be quite different.

Up on his hands and knees, he had a better view of the bed behind him. He nearly fainted when he finally realized what was crammed up his fundament, methodically fucking him mindless. A broom! A Firebolt! It tried to go even further inside as his position shifted, and pain lanced through the pleasure. He wasn't the only one on that bed who was mindless, and if he didn't do something soon, the bloody broom would literally spit him.

Thinking fast, hard to do when his brain was melted sludge and all his blood was busy in his prick, Snape cast a malleability charm at the broom. It caught at the twigs, causing the birch to soften and weave, then shimmered down the length of the ash handle. The wood shivered as the charm passed through it, and moments before it would have caused actual damage, the handle softened and curved.

Snape gasped and hunched. It felt ridiculously good as it conformed to the contours of his insides, fucking him further and deeper than he'd ever been fucked in his life. The slightly hysterical thought hit him that it all gave new meaning to superbly smooth action, not to mention one hell of a ride. Then the broom was twisting and writhing inside him, and he gave up any aspiration to thought, letting his body do what it had to do.

Which, in this case, meant writhing all over the bed like a wanton slut as a Firebolt Broom fucked him into oblivion. With the suppleness gained from the malleability charm, the broom bent like a lover. Snape could feel the cushioning charm flattening over his arse cheeks, then squeezing along the handle of the broom until it could slither inside him as well. The additional cushion of air compressed along the ash handle eased the hard battering his arse was taking from the broom, but also stretched him unlike anything he'd ever felt.

The tail twigs swept over his thighs, adding a scratchy caress that oddly, perfectly balanced the reaming above, and the entire haft of the broom vibrated like a cat purring. Random thoughts continued to appear out of the dazed void that was Snape's mind, phrases like 'pinpoint precision' striking as the handle glided against his prostate, or 'acceleration from zero to a hundred fifty' as the broom sped up its thrusts.

His hand slid down and began to pull at his prick, aching as it was from the battering up his arse. His other hand crept round his flank to find the smooth handle leading to the birch bristles that were welting his skin. As soon as his fingertips touched it, the broom seemed to swell, quiver and speed up. A jingle he'd heard on an advertisement when the Firebolts made their debut swam through Snape's head. "Turns at the touch, obeys thought as well as grip, knows what you want before you know it yourself ..." There was much to be said for truth in advertising. Another hysterical chuckle rose to the surface, and he clamped down on it, trying to stifle it.

The trouble was, he clamped down on everything at once, and it was too much to handle, either for himself or the broom. His teeth clenched, his hand fisted around his prick, his arsehole clamped around the Cushioning Charm, squeezing the handle, which in turn shuddered inside him. Burying his face in the pillow to smother a completely insane cry of "Whoopee!!!!!!" Snape came so hard he nearly hurt himself.

He was gasping for breath and trying to find the scattered remnants of his mind when he felt the broom move sluggishly within him. Instinctively, he reached back and tugged, feeling the malleability charm fading, desperately needing to get the bulk of the handle out of him before it straightened. The broom responded to his alarm with alacrity, pulling out in a long smooth motion that had him gasping all over again, and had the end of the handle nudging questioningly at his arsehole.

"No, I am NOT ready for round two," Snape panted. The broom shook itself, the rustle of the bristles sounding oddly disappointed. "Please," he continued, refusing to admit he was begging a broomstick, "go back to the shed. Leave me be."

Another drawn-out shake, this time soundly strangely sad, then with a whistle of displaced air the Firebolt zipped out of his bedroom, presumably heading for the shed behind the Quidditch pitch. Snape very carefully rolled onto his side, out of the large wet spot on the sheets, and blinked disbelievingly into the darkness.

He'd had many unusual things happen to him in his life. Werewolf attacks, Dark Lords, Aurors with grudges, deceptions piled on deceptions, but that had to be one of the weirdest of them all. If not THE weirdest. He was still wondering how on earth he was going to face Draco the next day, much less the Firebolt at the next match, or even if he'd be able to walk at all given how thoroughly the broom had ridden him, when he finally fell asleep.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

In the darkness of the broom shed, the Firebolt waited. Having had a taste of sentience, it wasn't about to give it up.

Not when it tasted that good.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; 

END

 

Firebolt specs courtesy of the Harry Potter Lexicon (http://www.i2k.com/~svderark/lexicon/brooms.html):

* streamlined, superfine handle of ash, treated with a diamond-hard polish

* hand-numbered with its own registration number

* tail twigs of birch, individually selected and honed to aerodynamic perfection

* unsurpassable balance

* pinpoint precision

* acceleration of 150 mph in 10 seconds

* unbreakable Braking Charm

* when you pick it up then let go, it hovers at exactly the right height to mount

* turns with the lightest touch, seems to obey thought rather than grip

* superbly smooth action


End file.
